With all Harriett Phillips's success in society she had never had much admiration from the other sex. This she did not attribute so much to anything as to her own superiority; it really wanted a great deal of courage for an average mortal to propose to her. Her unconscious egotism had something rather grand in it; it was rarely obtrusive, but it was always there. Her mind was naturally a vigorous one, but it had moved in a narrow channel, and whatever was out of her own groove, she ignored. She appreciated whatever Jane Melville knew that she was herself acquainted with, but whatever she—Harriett Phillips—was ignorant of, must be valueless. Now a comfortable opinion of oneself is not at all a disagreeable thing for the possessor, and kept within due bounds it is also a pleasant thing to one's friends and acquaintances. Brandon had been disposed to take Harriett Phillips at her own valuation, and to consider her very superior to himself in many things; while she liked him, for his attentions gave her importance; and though he wearied her sometimes, she could make up her mind to pass her life with him without any feeling of its being a great sacrifice. But he must stay in England; all his talk of returning to Victoria was only talk; her influence would be quite sufficient to induce him to do that. Though her heart was, in this lukewarm way, given to Mr. Brandon, she had a great curiosity to see this Mr. Hogarth, whom Brandon had called, in his rather vulgar colonial phraseology, "just her sort". She laid herself out to please the new comer; and Brandon was disposed to take offence—and did so. The events of the morning had made an impression on him; but if she had possessed the tact which sympathy and imagination alone can give, she might have appeased him, and brought him back to his allegiance. She did not guess where the shoe pinched, and she still further estranged the lover she had been secure of. She was charmed at the idea of making him a little jealous; it was the first opportunity she had ever had of flirting with another person in his presence, and the flirtation was carried on in such a sensible way that there was not a word said he had a right to be offended with. She only talked of things about which Brandon knew very little, and Mr. Hogarth a great deal, and she thought she was convincing both gentlemen of her great conversational powers. It was really time Brandon should be brought to the point, and this was the way to do it. While Brandon felt the chains not of love, but of habit, dropping off him, and wished that Elsie Melville was beside him, and not sitting between her cousin and another Australian, who was talking to her vigorously on his favourite subject of spirit-rapping and table-turning, and she was listening so patiently, and making little smart speeches—he could tell quite well by the expression of her eyes, though he could not hear the low sweet voice distinctly enough to tell exactly what she said. He recollected the party at Mrs. Rennie's, and how pleasant her voice was; and felt Harriett Phillips's was not at all musical, at least, when she was talking about the fine arts and tomorrow's exhibition to Mr. Hogarth; while Francis wondered at any one presuming to have so much to say while his cousin Jane was in the room.
"Now, as to table-turning, Mr. Dempster," said Harriett, who fancied she saw Brandon's eyes directed to that side of the table a little too often, "you will never convince me there is an atom of truth in it. I am quite satisfied with Faraday's explanation. You may think you have higher authority, but I bow to Faraday."
"Faraday's explanation is most insufficient and most unsatisfactory; it cannot account for things I have seen with my own eyes," said Mr. Dempster.
"But to what do all these manifestations tend?" asked Jane. "Of what value are the revelations you receive from the so-called spiritual world?"
"Of infinite value to me," said Mr. Dempster, "I have had my faith strengthened, and my sorrows comforted. We do want to know more of our departed friends—to have more assurance of their continued existence, and of their continued identity than we have without spiritualism. I always believed that nothing was lost in the divine economy; that as matter only decayed to give way to new powers of life, so spirit must only leave the material form it inhabits to be active in a new sphere, or to be merged in the One Infinite Intelligence. But this is merely an analogy—a strong one, but only an analogy, which cannot prove a fact."
"But, Mr. Dempster, I think we have quite sufficient grounds for believing in immortality from revelation. In scientific matters, I bow to Faraday, as I said before; in religious matters, I would not go any further than the Bible. But if that does not satisfy you, of course you must inquire of chairs and tables," said Miss Phillips, with a condescending irony, which she thought very cutting.
"The Bible is indistinct and indefinite as to the future state—so much so that theologians differ on the possibilities of recognition in heaven," said Mr. Dempster. "Now, eternal existence without complete identity is not to me desirable. That our beloved ones no longer have the warm personal interest in us which they felt in life—that they are perhaps merged in the perfection of God, or undergoing transmigration out of one form of intelligence to another, without any recollection of what happened in a former state, is not consoling to the yearning human heart that never can forget, and with all the sufferings which memory may bring, would not lose the saddest memory of love for worlds. This assurance of continued identity is what I find in spiritualism; and it meets the wants of my soul."
"What extraordinary heathenish ideas!" said Miss Phillips, who in her Derbyshire retreat had never heard anything of pantheism, or of this doctrine of metempsychosis as being entertained by sane Englishmen. "If you have such notions, I do not wonder at your flying to anything; for my part, I have never been troubled with doubts."
"The Bible is, I think, purposely indistinct on the subject of the future life," said Elsie. "Each soul imagines a heaven for itself, different in some degree from that of any other soul; but to me memory and identity are so necessary to the idea of continued existence that I cannot conceive of a heaven without it."
"I do not know," said Mr. Dempster, shaking his head. "Till I saw these wonderful manifestations, I had no clear or satisfactory feeling of it, and now I have. The evidence is first hand from the departed spirits themselves, and their revelations are consistent with our highest ideas of the goodness of God, and of the eternal nature of love."
"'That which is seen is not faith,' St. Paul says, and the very minuteness of your information would lead me to doubt its genuineness," said Francis. "I do not think it was intended that we should have such assurance; but that we should have a large faith in a God who will do well for us hereafter as he has done well for us here. But though I may not feel the need of such assurance, I do not deny that others may. There is much that is very remarkable about these spiritual manifestations;—whether it is mesmerism, or delusion, or positive fraud, I think it is a remarkable instance of the questioning spirit of the day, unsatisfied with old creeds and desirous of reconstructing some new belief."
"I should like you to come to a seance" said Mr. Dempster, glad to find some one who was disposed to inquire on the subject. He had only recently become a convert, and was very anxious to induce others to think with him. "I am quite sure that you will see something that will impress you with the reality of the manifestations."
"I should like to go too," said Mrs. Phillips.
"I certainly should not," said Harriett. "I think these things are quite wicked."
"These questions have never given me any trouble," said Mr. Phillips, "and to my mind, Mr. Dempster, the revelations, such as I have heard at least, are very puerile and contemptible; but that there must be a singular excitement attending even an imaginary conversation with the dead I can easily believe, and I do not care for exposing myself to it."
"Nor I," said Brandon; "as Miss Alice says, I have got my own idea of heaven, and I am satisfied with it. I think we are not intended to know all the particulars."
Why did Brandon, in giving no original opinion of his own (poor fellow, he was incapable of that), give Elsie's argument in preference to hers? Miss Phillips felt still more inclined to be agreeable to Mr. Hogarth from this slight to herself, and began to think that an inquiring spirit, in a man at least, was more admirable than Brandon's lazy satisfaction with things as they are at present.
Mr. Dempster's eagerness after a possible convert was only to be satisfied by Francis making an appointment with him to attend a seance on the following evening in his own house. And then the conversation changed to politics—English, foreign, and colonial—in which Francis and his cousins were much interested.
Mr. Dempster was rather an elderly man, who had lost his wife and all his family, with the exception of one daughter, who was married and settled in South Australia. Though so enthusiastic a believer in spiritualism, he was a very shrewd and well-informed man in mundane matters. He had been a very old colonist on the Adelaide side; and, having been a townsman, had taken a more active part in politics than the Victorian squatters, Phillips and Brandon. They were all in the full tide of talk about the advantages and disadvantages of giving to their infant States constitutional government, and allowing each colony to frame its constitution for itself. The good and evil effects of manhood suffrage and vote by ballot Francis for the first time heard discussed by people who had lived under these systems, and English, French, and American blunders in the science of politics looked at from a new and independent point of view. At what Jane and Elsie considered the most interesting part of the conversation, Mrs. Phillips and Harriett, who cared for none of these subjects, gave the signal for the ladies to withdraw, so they had to leave with them.
Jane saw the children to bed, and Elsie got on with Mrs. Phillips's bonnet, while the gentlemen remained in the dining room; but both reappeared in the drawing-room by the time they came upstairs. Elsie did not like to disappoint any one, and the idea struck her that if she got up very early in the morning, and things went all well with her, she could finish Harriett's bonnet also in time, for really Mrs. Phillips's new one would make her sister-in-law's look very shabby. It was the first new bonnet she had been trusted to make since she came; she had had CARTE BLANCHE for the materials, and had pleased herself with the style, and Elsie believed it would be her CHEF-D'OEUVRE. The idea of giving Miss Phillips such an unexpected pleasure made her feel quite kindly disposed towards her, though the feeling was not reciprocated, for as Harriett did not know of Elsie's intentions, she could not be supposed to be grateful for them; but, on the contrary, she felt a grudge at her for enjoying herself in this way at the expense of her bonnet. Harriett Phillips played and sang very well; her father was fond of music, and that taste had been very well cultivated for her time and opportunities, and she had kept up with all the modern music very meritoriously. Perhaps it was this, more than anything else, that had made her Dr. Phillips's favourite daughter, for in all other things Georgiana was more self-forgetful and more sympathising. Stanley, too, admired his sister's accomplishment; he had missed the delightful little family concerts and the glee-singing that he had left for his bush life, and if it could have been possible for his wife to acquire music it would certainly have been a boon to him; but as she had no ear and no taste, even he saw that it was impracticable; but Emily was to be an accomplished musician. She did not go to bed with the little ones, but sat up to play her two little airs to her papa's friends—to teach her confidence, Mrs. Phillips said, but, in reality, to give her a little spur to application.
"As for Emily needing confidence," whispered Brandon to Alice Melville, "that is a splendid absurdity. These colonial children do not know what bashfulness or timidity means—not but what I am very fond of all the Phillipses, and Emily is my favourite."
"She is mine, too," said Elsie; "she is an affectionate and an original child, with quick perceptions and quick feelings. I believe she is very fond of me; I like little people to be fond of me."
"Not big people, too?" said Brandon, with an expression half comic, half sad.
Elsie blushed. Emily came up to her dear friend, Mr. Brandon, and her favourite, Alice. "Aunt Harriett is going to play and sing now, and after that, Alice, you must sing. I like your songs better than Aunt Harriett's twenty times, because I can hear all your words."
"I cannot sing," said Elsie, "I never had a lesson in either music or singing in my life."
"Oh! but you sing very nicely; indeed she does, Mr. Brandon: and there is not a thing that happens that she cannot turn into a song or a poem, just like what there is in books, and you would think it very pretty if you only heard them. We get her to bring her work into our nursery in the evenings, and there we have stories and songs from her."
"You are in luck," said Mr. Brandon; "but now that you have told us of Miss Alice Melville's accomplishments, we must be made to share in your good fortune."
"No, indeed," said Elsie; "as Burns says, 'crooning to a body's sel' does weel eneugh;' but my crooning is not fit for company, except that of uncritical children."
"You know I am as uncritical as the veriest child," said Brandon. "I must have given you a very erroneous impression of my character, if you can feel the least awe of me; but I recollect your twisting a very innocent speech of mine, the first evening I had the pleasure of meeting you, into something very severe. That was rather ill natured."
"Alice is not ill-natured at all," said Emily. "Aunt Harriett sometimes is. She is looking cross at me now for talking while she is singing."
"It is very rude in all of us," said Elsie, composing herself to give attention to Miss Phillips's song.
"I tell you what, you dear old boy," whispered Emily. "I don't think Alice will sing here, or tell you any of her lovely stories; but I will smuggle you into the nursery some day, and you will just have a treat."
"What have I done since I came to England," said Brandon in the same undertone, "that I should have been banished in this cruel way from the nursery? Did you ever refuse me admission at Wiriwilta—did not I kiss every one of you in your little nightclothes, and see you tucked into bed? If I was worthy of that honour then, why am I debarred from it now?"
"You saved our lives, papa says—you and Peggy—and so we always liked you; and, for my part, I like you as well as ever I did now; but we are in England now, and it is so different from Wiriwilta—dear old Wiriwilta, I wish I was back to it. I wish papa was not so rich, for then we would go back again; but it's no use as long as he has got enough of money to stay here. The letters that came the other day—you recollect."
"I got none," said Brandon; "I suppose mine are sent by Southampton."
"Well, I don't think they had good news, or papa's face looked rather long, and he has been so quiet and dull ever since; so I am in hopes that things are not going very well without him, and then we will have another beautiful long voyage with you, and get back to dear, darling Australia again. Harriett wants to go back too."
"What a chatterbox you are, Emily," said her aunt, who had finished her song. "It is quite time you were in bed."
"Not quite, auntie; papa said I might sit up till ten tonight; and Mr. Brandon and I are so busy talking about old times, that I do not feel it a bit late."
"Old times, indeed," said Harriett; "what old times can a little chit like you find to talk of?"
"Oh, the dear old times at Wiriwilta, when we were such friends; and, the time that I cannot recollect of when there was the fire, and Peggy and this old fellow saved our lives. I wish I could remember about it—mamma does, though."
"Indeed I do," said Mrs. Phillips, with a tranquil expression of satisfaction at the thought of the danger she had escaped. "We was all in terrible danger, and all through that horrid doctor. Stanley should have let me have my own way, and taken me to Melbourne; but he would not listen to reason."
"Well, Lily, you are none of the worse now, and I hope you do not feel it burdensome to be so much obliged to our old friend Brandon."
"Oh no, not at all."
"You need not be," said he, laughing; "don't attempt to make a hero of me: a mere neighbourly good turn happened to have important consequences. Peggy's conduct was far beyond mine."
"But you were badly scorched," said Emily. "Do let us see the scar on your arm once more—I have not seen it in England." Brandon indulged the child; turned up his sleeve, and Emily gave the arm a hug and a kiss.
This was rather a strange exhibition for a drawing-room, Harriett Phillips thought, but Brandon never was much of a gentleman. Even Stanley had sadly fallen back in his manners in Australia, and what could be expected of Brandon? Mr. Hogarth had more taste; he had the dignified reserve of a man of birth and fortune; he had made remarks on her musical performance that showed he was really a judge. It was not often that she had met with any man so variously accomplished, or so perfectly well bred. He had promised to accompany them to the exhibition of paintings on the morrow, and she had great pleasure in anticipating his society, if it were not for the thought of her bonnet.
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg